


Four by Four

by 0shadow_panther0



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: (eventual) chorus trilogy, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, F/M, I LIED I FORGOT TO ADD, M/M, Multi, Redemption, church is extraordinarily angry at all times, dad!alpha church, diverges early s6 since tucker is there, diverges from right before wash sets off the emp, espsilon's character ends up pretty different, gratuitous sex jokes, just a heads up, maine and tex live, mute character, some gore, that tag is misleading some ppl are still dead
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-05
Updated: 2018-07-22
Packaged: 2018-08-29 06:37:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8479051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/0shadow_panther0/pseuds/0shadow_panther0
Summary: Church, in a decidedly Church-like fashion, decides to do whatever possible to make sure Tex makes it out of the Meta. If that means he has to take Sigma head-on and save Maine from the AI, he'll do it.He also decides that this Director guy really deserves a punch in the balls.





	1. once more

“You are the Alpha.”

Church freezes. “You’re fucking kidding me,” he says. “Bitch, _look_ at me. I’m a _ghost_.”

“You’re an AI,” Washington insists.

“I fucking possess people,” Church snaps. “I’ve got memories since I was, like, fucking five years old. I had a girlfriend. I’ve had _sex_. What part of that screams ‘I’m an AI?’”

“Your memories? Or the implanted ones?” Wash questions.

Church twitches. “Okay. Fine. For one minute- one fucking minute- let’s imagine that I am, in fact, an AI.”

“The Alpha,” the Freelancer adds helpfully.

“Oh for fuck’s sake- yeah, the Alpha, whatever. So where’s my chip? I can’t just be a fucking… floating AI.”

“You had a host-”

“A host,” Church scoffs, “like I’m a fucking parasite.”

“-who carried an implantation. Private Jimmy. That was your body while you were in Blood Gulch.”

“Private Jimmy? What the fuck? Look, buddy, I looked in the mirror while I was there. I know what I fucking look like, and I sure as hell don’t look like Jimmy. Besides, Tex fucking beat him to death. I didn’t look fucking dead either.”

“You saw what you wanted to see,” Wash says, “and remembered what you wanted to remember.” A pause. “Well, what the Director wanted you to remember, anyway. And Jimmy wasn’t quite… dead.”

“Then how did I possess Sarge?” he counters.

“Every participant in the battle simulations had minor neural implants that would have allowed you to jump from host to host, should the need arise.” Wash give Church a brief up and down. “Apparently, that was a good idea.”

“What kind of bullshit-”

And Church freezes.

_He has his helmet off, for once. He runs a gloved hand through his hair, grimacing at it’s flatness._

_“Dude,” Tucker says, glaring at his hair like it’s personally offending him. “Fucking fix that mess. It looks like that curly spaghetti shit.”_

_“Curly?” Church sneers. “Tucker, you’re fucking blind. My hair’s straight.”_

_“Whatever man,” Tucker says, eyeing him skeptically._

“Fuck,” Church whispers. Then, louder, “ _Fuck_!”

“Alpha? Are you-” Wash asks.

“Don’t,” Church hisses, “fucking call me _Alpha_. I’m _Church_.”

Washington raises his hands placatingly. “Okay. But we need a plan. The Meta’s coming soon and we have next to nothing to work with.”

“I- fuck, how am _I_ so supposed to know?” Church snarls. “What, you telling me that I’m an AI is supposed to trigger my magical fucking genius powers?”

“Church,” Wash starts, but he gets cut off.

“Shut up,” Church snaps, “and let me think.”

“I have the EMP,” Wash continues. “I can lure the Meta and activate and wipe the other AI’s and-”

“ _No_ ,” Church snarls with enough force to startle himself. “That’s not an option. Son of a bitch, I should just fucking leave you here and get the fuck out of here with everyone else.”

Wash furrows his brow- Church can’t fucking see it, of course, but he knows he’s doing it- and starts to speak, but Church says, “Shut. Up,” and that’s that.

Church paces aggressively, completely soundless other than his angry muttering. He stomps along the linoleum, scowling beneath his helmet.

“I- okay, fuck- I need a body.”

“A body?” Wash questions.

“You fucking deaf or something, fuck munch? Yeah, a body. I can’t do shit as a ghost.”

Wash, in a decidedly smart move, decides not to correct him.

“Okay,” Wash says. “A body. Where are we going to get one of those?”

“This is the Freelancer Command Center right? Those fuckers are bound to have some shady shit lying around. Robots, drones, whatever.”

“A body,” Wash repeats. “Then what?”

“The Meta’s only a danger because he’s got like, twenty seven AI, right?”

“Well,” Wash begins, “he was already an exemplary agent before his AI implantation-”

“Did you know, every fucking time you open your mouth, you make things worse?”

Washington freezes at that. It’s a little too familiar.

Church rambles on, oblivious. “Anyway, it’s obvious that they want me, so they can have me.” He ignores Wash’s screechy shriek and keeps going. “O’Malley- Omega, whatever- could jump between suits, but only if they had their comm channels open. I’m thinking, I can lure the other AI out of the Meta’s suit and lock them in with me. Then you can diddle the Meta.”

“ _Diddle the_ -? That’s got to be the worst plan ever. Of all time.”

“Look, asshat, you have a better idea?”

‘The EMP,’ Wash wants to insist. But and EMP that wipes the other AI could wipe Alpha, too, and as much as he wants the Meta gone, he doesn’t want Church gone.

“No,” Wash says instead, sullen and sulky.

“Then we’re going with my plan,” Church says. “So find me a body.”

“I- fine. We’ll find one. Do you need, like, a physical body? Or, uh, just a suit of armor?”

”What the fuck am going to do as a suit of armor? Lie on the floor like a sack of potatoes? Of course I need a body assho-”

“Okay! Okay, I get it, you need a something functioning.”

“ _Aaaaaaand_ also armor.”

“Jesus _Christ_.”

\---

It takes awhile, but between the two of them they manage to scrounge up an what appears to be an old humanoid droid with most of its wiring intact, and a set of barely functioning standard-issue armor from the armory.

The two of them hole up in the control room of the command center, surrounded by defunct computers and dust.

Wash is twitchy, constantly on the alert for the sound of the Meta’s heavy footsteps or the whisper of an opening door.

Church fazes into the droid, flexing his hands- only four fingers on one, wires poking out of the shortened stub of his left pinky- and rolls his neck, adjusting to the sensation of the unkept machinery.

It’s disconcerting to see the service drone move like a human, movements stuttered but lifelike. It also doesn’t have a proper face, so when it turns its head when Wash asks, “Are you ready?” he feels like he wants to piss his pants. (Ten years ago, he probably would have.)

“Alright,” the droid says in Church’s voice, and Wash gets _that_ much more uncomfortable. “Gimme the armor.”

Church puts on the armor with awkward, faltering movements, and needs Washington’s help for most of it. Eventually they get it done, and by that time Wash is practically vibrating with anxiety.

“What do we do now?” he asks.

“We wait.”

\---

It couldn’t have been more thirty minutes but to Wash it feels like a dozen lifetimes. He’s sweating beneath his armor, jittery and hyper aware of every goddamn thing and if this goes on any longer his heart is going to implode or he’s going to have a fucking aneurysm or something.

Then he hears it.

Apparently, Church hears it too, from the way he stills and cocks his head. Heavy, regular footsteps clunk along the floors.

“He’s here,” Church says, a bit unnecessarily, and Wash wants to snap at him but clenches his jaw tight.

The door slides open.

“Hey dick biscuit,” Church says, and the Meta stares him down.

Half a dozen flickering forms materialize around the Meta’s hulking form.

“It’s him,” one whispers.

“The Alpha.”

“He’s here.”

“Get him.”

“You want me?” Church shouts, spreading his arms. “Come at me!”

The AI blink out of sight and Church shouts, “Now, Wash!”

And things go very wrong.

\---

“Alpha. _Alpha_. _AlphaAlphaAlphaAlpha_ **_A L P H A_**.“

Church’s head is swarmed with whispers, and he can hear each and every voice. Sigma’s (Who’s Sigma? He can’t remember but he knows) reverberating candace, Gamma’s robotic tone, Delta’s smooth monotone. Omega’s deep rumble, and-

“Church.”

Church hears screaming. It takes him a few moments to realize it’s him.

\---

Wash feels sick.

About two seconds after Church shut down his comm, he falls down to the floor. He’s on his knees, curled around himself as tightly as possible. Even with the comms off, Wash can hear Church’s wailing through the helmet.

A moment later, the Meta starts screaming.

No, the Meta doesn’t scream- the Meta _roars_.

The sound rattles Wash’s skull and it's actually painful to listen to.

The Meta scrabbles at his helmet, tearing it off and throwing it to the floor. He grips his head in his head, keening. The dark lines of the tattoo are striking against his skin, and he tears at them with his fingers, drawing ragged lines of blood with blunt nails.

“Shit,” Wash mutters, moving to help almost instinctively, and has to stop and remind himself that this isn’t Maine, not anymore. Not after what he did to Carolina, to North, to _everyone_.

He keeps his gun leveled at the giant’s head, trigger finger itching. ‘Just shoot,’ he thinks. ‘That’s not Maine. It’s not-’

He can’t.

So Wash stands there and listens to the screams.

\---

_“The Meta,” Wash says, “went to the crash site and recovered the AI’s he found there. Gamma, Omega, and-”_

“Tex,” Church whispers.

She’s staring back at him, visor shining. “Church.”

“You- you’re here.” His voice is soft, almost reverent, and he wants to reach out to her, to hold her, to-

“You need to get out of here,” she says, and Church jerks away.

“What? No, no fucking way, I’m not losing you again,” he snarls.

“Don’t be stupid,” Tex snorts. “I’m not going anywhere. But this body isn’t enough to hold us all here. In a bit, it’s going to shut down, and one of two things will happen- we’re going to be trapped in this piece of junk for eternity, or we all go back to the Meta. Including you, and that’s exactly what Sigma wants.”

“Sigma?” Church asks, dazed. “Who-”

“Later,” Tex says, cutting him off, “I’ll explain everything. But for now, you need to get out.”

“I’m not leaving you!” Church shouts. “Not again! And definitely not with fucking five AI that probably want to tear you to shreds!”

Tex scoffs. “I’ll be fine,” she says. “There’s a reason I was paired with Omega back in the good old days.” Church can only imagine the razor edged smirk beneath her helmet. “They won’t touch me.”

“If we open the comms to leave the other AI will escape, too,” he tries to argue. “ Then all of this would have been for fucking nothing!”

“Don’t be a baby,” Tex says, looking remarkably calm. “I’ll open a private channel between you a Washington and shut it as soon as you’re out. We’ll be in here, you’ll be out there, and all you need is to find a few storage units and we’ll be home free. That is, if Washington can take care of the Meta.”

“I’m. Not. Leaving. You,” Church grits out. He grabs her shoulders. “There’s no way in hell you gonna make me leave you again.”

“Do you trust me?”

Church freezes.

Tex cocks her head. “Do you trust me?” she repeats. “Church-”

“ _No_ , damnit!” he shouts. “I don’t fucking trust you! I don’t trust that you’re not going to fucking _die_ on me again and I don’t trust that you’re not going to pull some self-sacrificial _bullshit_ now that you know that I know that you knew everything and-”

Tex cuts him off. She grabs his hands and eases them off her shoulders. “I’ll be here when you come back,” she says, and it's the most gentle he’s ever seen her.

_The Pelican flies off, Tex closes her eyes-_

_“Goodbye.”_

He’s quiet for a few long moments.

“I hate goodbyes,” he says miserably.

She snorts. “Me, too,” she says. “Now go.”

Tex shoves him and it’s like he’s been pushed into the void, nothing but blackness and the a low thrum in his ears- not blood, not adrenalin, since he’s fucking dead (‘Never alive to begin with,’ a voice says mockingly) and he’s just falling and-

“Church?” Wash says, sounding absolutely bewildered. “What- How-?”

“No time to explain,” Church says, rushed. “Just whack the Meta over the head and go. We need to find the storage units for the AI.”

“What the hell-”

“God fucking _damnit_ , just go already!”

And Wash swings the butt of his rifle down on the back of the Meta’s head and Wash half expects the blow to do absolutely nothing but the Meta crumples like soggy paper and Wash _sprints_.

“Why-” he wheezes between heaving gasps- “do we need the memory units?”

“Tex is _alive_ ,” Church says urgently. “She’s alive and she’s trapped in there with all the other AI’s with the Meta and I can _save_ her.”

“Beta-?”

“ _Tex_ ,” Church insists.

Wash makes a sharp left and he slides, scrabbling along the smooth floors and leaps through the doorway to the stairwell, taking the steps two at a time. He knows where the memory units are. Epsilon had shown him, all those years ago. He remembers.

Before he knows it, they’re in the room. The Sarcophagus is there, but empty, whatever was inside long gone.

Church is disturbingly quiet.

“Church?” Wash asks. “Are you-”

“Get the memory units,” Church says shortly, “and get out of here.”

Wash hesitates.

_“Oh god… No… NO! Please, not her!”_

_“I am sorry Alpha. It was not your fault.”_

_“How can you say that? Of course it was! I just… I needed more_ time _.”_

Church takes a long, shuddering breath. “Wash. Hurry up. We need to get out of here.”

Thankfully, Washington does what he says and fumbles with half a dozen storage units. He maglocks two to his back, praying that the electromagnetism doesn’t fuck with the units, hooks one onto his utility belt, shoves two under his left arm and one under his right, and swaps his rifle for a one-handed pistol. He’s about ninety-nine percent sure that it’ll do as much damage to the Meta as a BB gun, but the familiar weight in his hand is more of a comfort than anything.

“How are you going to get the AI into the units?” Wash asks as he runs back. “We don’t have any tech and the Meta still has all the implants.”

“Leave that to me,” Church says, voice stony and cold. “You just make sure the Meta stays down.”

Wash thinks about the Meta’s hulking form, thinks about how back in Freelancer Maine had towered over everyone, how he had taken bullets for them and shaken it off like nothing was wrong, kept fighting after a full magazine had been unloaded in his throat.

“Easier said than done,” Wash mutters, adjusting his grip on one of the shells.

“Stop fucking whining,” Church snaps. “You’re not the one who’s going to be trapped with five psychotic AI and your fucking ex-girlfriend.”

Wash skids to a stop at the control room doors. He can see the Meta’s prone form lying face down on the ground, sees the hairline fracture on the side of the EVA helmet's visor.

“I’m gonna open a comm channel between your suit and mine,” Church says. He’s buzzing around in Wash’s helmet, not in his mind, thank god, but surrounding him. “Open up the memory units,” Church instructs. “As soon as they say something’s inside them, close them. I’m gonna get each one of those bastards. And I’m gonna save Tex.”

“Church, this is a bad idea-”

Too late. He’s gone.

“Son of a bitch,” Wash mutters, and at that exact moment, the Meta starts to wake up.

Wash stares as the Meta lumbers to his feet.

“This,” he declares, “is the worst day ever. Of all time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in which there is an excessive use of italics and the present tense has broken me


	2. in which both church and wash are really tired of getting their asses kicked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (some) shit goes down. nobody's out of the woods yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so! brief warning for some kinda graphic gore towards the end. i'm considering raising the rating to M because there will be more graphically violent scenes as the story goes on. also sex jokes.  
> also! i'm sorry about the late update, my life has been pretty hectic- i posted a note about that on another story- and now i have the added pressure of my upcoming finals! so thats fun! i probably wont update until after christmas, but i'll do my best to keep working on this story!

“Tex! Tex, where are you?!”

Church stumbles around the empty halls, disoriented. “Tex?” he calls. “Tex, _please_.”

“ _God_ , you’re clingy,” Tex says dryly.

Church whips around. Tex is standing behind him, hands on her hips and head cocked.

“Do you know where you are?” she asks.

“I- What?” Church says.

Tex spreads her arms, gesturing to the halls. “Do you recognize this? This is the Mother of Invention in its prime.”

Church blanches. “ _Here_? Why here?”

Tex shrugs. “It’s the world that Sigma created. That _you_ created.” She pauses. “We need to move. They know we’re here.”

“‘ _They_?’ The other AI?” Church asks. Tex doesn’t respond as she grabs his arm and drags him along. “Tex, I need _answers_. Just tell me what the fuck is happening?”

Tex hesitates. Church has never seen her hesitate before.

“Sigma,” she starts slowly, “isn’t what he used to be. He represented ambition, creativity… Something went wrong. The Director changed him. He made Sigma…” Tex sighs. “Well, it’s for the best if I don’t remind you.”

Church frowns. “He… he tortured me, right?” he says, tentative, remembers the sickness rolling in his stomach, remembers tormented screams, remembers the Sarcophagus. “Sigma… and Gamma and Omega. They all did.”

Tex keeps walking. “Omega didn’t particularly care who he hurt, even if it was you. Gamma was the same- deceit and betrayal, getting the upper hand, a feeling of superiority- those were the things he cared about. Sigma… He was curious. He wanted to meet you, to see who you were before you fragmented, wanted to see how close to being human an AI could get. The Director tried to crush those thoughts as soon as possible. He broke Sigma instead.”

“All he wanted was to be human,” Church says. The echos of voices long gone ring through his mind. “Metastability.”

Tex nods. “And right now, you’re the key to that. Sigma thinks that, if he can get you, he can stabilize the others, force them together.”

“Become whole,” Church murmurs.

Tex suddenly turns to face him. “I’m _not_ going to let that happen,” she snarls. “Sigma is _broken_. The Director broke _all_ of us. But this isn’t how we fix it.”

Tex freezes. Tilts her head. “He’s here,” she says. “Omega.”

“Fuck,” Church squeaks, significantly less manly than planned.

Tex shakes her head. “Don't worry,” she says. “I can take care of him.”

Church grimaces, but nods.

And just like that, Omega is in front of them, staring them down.

“Hello, Alpha,” he says, his voice a low rumble that fills the hall. He glances at Tex. “Texas.”

Tex rolls her shoulders and cracks her knuckles. “Omega,” she says with deceptive mildness. “Ready for a beatdown?”

Omega laughs, harsh and grating, and Church resists the urge to flinch. “No,” he says, “I'm not here for you, Beta.” A thoughtful pause. "Or maybe I am?" He chuckles darkly. "Oh, the possibilities."

Tex clicks her tongue disapprovingly. “You can't get to him with me in the way,” she says. “And you'd never back out of a good fight. So, Omega, what do you want?”

There’s a moment of uneasy silence. “Sigma is weak,” he sneers finally. “Soft. I want out.”

Church blinks. No way. No fucking _way_ it's that easy.

“Out?” Tex asks. “And here I thought the Meta would be the perfect host for someone like you. All brawn, and no will to resist.”

Omega scoffs. “Sigma is weak,” he repeats. “All he wants is metastability. I want power.” He turns to Church. “Get me out of here,” Omega says, “and I'll help you take down Sigma.”

“Hold up,” Church says. “There's got to be a catch here. There's no way you just want out.”

Another grating laugh, and Church can imagine Omega baring his teeth in a feral grin.

“Very clever, _Alpha_ ,” he purrs, and Church holds back a shudder. “Yes, I want something else. I want Agent Texas.”

The first words out of Church's mouth are “Not gonna fucking happen.”

The first word out of Tex’s mouth is “Deal.”

Church wheels on her. “What,” he shrieks, “the absolute fuck.”

Tex rolls her eyes. “Calm down Church,” she says, exasperated. “I told you, I can handle Omega.”

“Yeah, but-”

“What did you think I was doing during all those years in Freelancer?” she asked. “Let Omega control me? I did it before, and now is no different.”

Church fidgets. “Fine,” he relents. “But for the record, this is a _really_ fucking shitty plan.”

“Can't be any worse than any of your plans,” Tex replies dryly.

“Much as I enjoy watching you two bicker,” Omega says, his voice actually sounding rather amused, “we should get going.”

Tex sends a final glance towards Church before striding ahead.

“We need to find Delta,” she says, and doesn't look back.

\--

“Shit shit _shit shit shit_ _FUCK_!” Wash shrieks, dodging another swing of the Brute Shot’s blade.

“Church,” he wails. “For the love of God, please hurry up!”

He fires a few useless shots from his dinky pistol- that's a lie, his pistol’s fine, his pistol is a relatively high caliber gun in excellent condition, thank you very much, it just doesn't do anything against the Meta except make a couple of dinging noises as it ricochets off his armor.

The Meta snarls and lurches toward him, moving like a marionette with a broken string, clumsy and uncoordinated.

Wash takes a brief moment to thank whatever divine being (that was also probably having a great laugh at his expense) that the room was too cramped for the Meta to utilize the Brute Shot’s grenade launcher. Blades, he can kind of deal with. Tanking explosive ammo had been, ironically enough, Maine’s job.

He ducks under the Meta’s next swing and rolls behind his imposing form, trying to kick out his feet. He lashes out with as much force as he can muster and his boot lands against the Meta’s ankle with a satisfying _thunk_.

The Meta wobbles for a solid quarter of a second.

“Son of a _bitch_ ,” Wash wails, and throws himself out of the way of a massive fist.

It's a fucking bag of laughs the way Wash shimmies from side to side as he desperately attempts to keep the Meta away from Church’s twitching, prone form while trying to avoid getting cleaved in two by the Brute Shot. He probably looks like an idiot and, honestly, he couldn't care less.

Of course, it's in the process of one of Wash’s ridiculous shimmies that the first memory unit blinks and lets out an ear splitting beep.

Wash drops to the ground and rolls as the Meta brings the Brute Shot down with enough force to embed the blade two inches in the floor, using his momentum to roll onto his feet in one, smooth motion, sprints to the unit, and slams the ‘contain’ button with decidedly more force than strictly necessary.

“Okay,” he wheezes between gasping breaths. “One down.”

\---

Finding and convincing Delta to leave was surprisingly easy. Well, maybe not surprisingly, as Church was already relatively familiar with him and Delta had some sort of- not affection, per se, but some sort of companionship with Caboose and the others.

Luckily, Sigma hadn't had enough time to _integrate_ \- Delta’s words, not Church’s- Delta into the Meta, and it had been a simple matter of coaxing Delta willingly into one of the memory units.

Eta and Iota, on the other hand-

“For _fuck’s_ _sake_ ,” Church screams, “get in the memory unit you little _shits_.”

Iota giggles and dances out of the way of Church’s clumsy swing. Eta snickers more darkly as they kick Church’s out from under him, and Church lands hard on his ass.

Tex snorts as she leans against the wall, arms crossed over her chest. Next to her, Omega mimics the pose, a near-perfect copy, save for his flickering charcoal armor.

“You could help, you know,” Church growls through gritted teeth as he pushes himself up.

Tex hums. “Actually,” she says, amusement coloring her voice warm, “I’m enjoying the show.”

“Fuck you,” Church snaps, and is promptly clocked over the head by Eta.

“You little _shit_ ,” he hisses, making a grab for gold-armored AI, but Eta merely laughs and slips out of his grasp.

Tex, finally taking pity on him, steps in. She grabs Iota by the collar of their armor and yanks them close.

She nods to Omega, and he pushes of the wall. Tex hands the struggling Iota to him- apparently her strength in the real world transfers to the digital one, because she handles them with as much effort as holding a kitten by the scruff. She pauses for a moment, and Church sees a distortion out of the corner of his eye, like a heat wave. Omega shoves Iota into the distortion and they just... disappear.

“What,” Church says flatly.

Eta freezes like a startled deer, the easiness that they had held themselves with while messing with Church all but gone, replaced with a terrified stiffness.

Then they bolt.

“Omega!” Tex barks, and the two of them are off, working in near-perfect unison.

For all that Tex had waxed about how much she distrusted Omega, they act like a cohesive unit, needing little more simple gestures and singular words to communicate. Maybe it a byproduct of how Omega had been stored in her head for such a long time, or because the both of them are fragments from the same whole, but either way, it works.

And Church hates it.

He _hates_ how intimately Omega knows her, _hates_ how much Omega knows about her, _hates_ how fucking _childish_ and _irrational_ his jealousy is- and _hates_ it even more.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he mumbles beneath his breath, and jogs to catch up to them.

He rounds the bend of the hallway just in time to see Omega drop Eta into another one of the distortions- Tex opening a private channel, somehow, he really doesn’t want to think about it too hard.

“Two more down,” Tex comments. “Let’s hope Washington is holding up alright on his side.”

\---

Wash is indeed holding up, but whether he is holding up “alright” or “by the skin of his teeth” is up for debate.

The two memory units had beeped one after another, and he had to dive under the Meta’s wild swing and roll- literally, he had to roll a dozen feet on the ground- to get to them.

At this point, Wash is sweaty, tired, and really, really sick of the Meta trying whack him with large, pointy objects.

Unfortunately, the Meta doesn’t seem nearly as tired as Wash is, swinging with the same brutal force as he had been a fucking hour ago, while Wash’s legs are trembling and he’s taking heavy, shaky breaths.

Wash’s exhaustion gets the best of him.

The Meta brings the Brute Shot across in a horizontal slash, and Wash fumbles with his backstep. The blade cuts into him effortlessly, slicing open the unarmored line of his belly as easily as gutting a fish. He feels his suit blare alarms as it detects breakage in his undersuit, feels the medi gel pump into the wound, the burning of the sealant as it struggles to staunch the bleeding and keep his insides from becoming his outsides.

He’s too busy screaming to care.

Wash had been through some _shit_ during his time in Project Freelancer. He’s been shot at more instances than he can count, stabbed with various knives, and had the shit kicked out of him an unreasonable amount of times.

Nothing compares to this. _Nothing_.

“Oh god,” he gasps. He doesn’t have enough air left in his lungs to scream. “Ah- _fuck_.”

He presses his hands to his stomach desperately, gloves soaking with blood after moments. Beneath the rapidly hardening foam of the sealant he can see his own guts and a wave of nausea rolls through him. He drops to his knees, tears off his helmet, and dry heaves, the pain leaping exponentially as his stomach rolls.

He can see the Meta’s boots right in front of him, can see those slow, awful, deliberate steps as he approaches.

Wash is a shivering, trembling mess- _oh god it hurts so much_ \- forehead pressed against the cold tile - _make it stop please_. Face down - _I’m terrified_ \- like a man awaiting the guillotine - _I can’t take this_ \- Wash is filled with the bone chilling realization that _he is going to die._

“Maine,” he whispers, voice hoarse and soft- please not like this. “ _Maine_.” _I don’t want to die._

And the Meta stops.

Wash does nothing but breathe, taking shaky, rattling breaths until the medi gel finally starts to kick in, and the piercing, excruciating pain dulls to a less agonizing level, and Wash is capable of rational thought again.

He lifts his head slowly. The gold EVA helmet stared back, inhumanly still.

Wash hesitates. “...Maine?” he says, slowly.

The Meta- no, someone who is Not Quite The Meta lets out a confused whine in the back of his throat, and takes a step back.

Wash rises slowly, still clutching at his stomach as he clambers first to his knees, then to a crouch, and finally to his feet, hunched and unsteady.

“Maine,” Wash says again, more insistently. His voice is quavering with the effort it takes to hold himself together. “Maine, I know you're still there.”

Not-Maine takes another step back, shaking his head. Low, frantic rumbles pour out of his throat as he paws at the dome of his helmet. He's  _so close_.

“ _Maine_ ,” Wash pleads. “Come back.”

Maine lifts his head.


	3. something's missing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> theta, is that you?

“I can’t believe we lost Church!” Tucker screeches, grabbing the wheel of the Warthog in a white-knuckled grip.

“ _Chuuuuurch_!” Caboose wails, clutching Epsilon’s memory unit close to his chest, driving one-handedly and veering dangerously from side to side.

“Grif! Don’t puke in your helmet! That’s disgusting!” Simmons yells from the car over, clinging desperately to the turret as Sarge slams on the gas. Grif leans forward, bracing himself against the dash, letting out a strangled, pained groan.

“If I die,” Grif moans, “don’t let Simmons get any of my stuff.”

“Can it, meatsack!” Sarge barks, ignoring Simmons’ outraged cry of, ‘Grif, you fuck!’ “No one’s dying today, not even you!”

“ _Chuuuuuuuuuurch_!” Caboose wails again.

“Shut the fuck up Caboose!” Tucker shouts, swerving to avoid crashing into his car. “Focus on driving, you’re gonna get everyone fucking killed!”

There’s some incoherent screaming coming from the car that all the Reds are crammed into, but Tucker doesn’t really bother listening to that, marginally more concerned about the fact that he dropped Church’s possibly dead body onto the middle of the road.

“Fuck,” he mumbles under his breath. “Church is gonna fucking kill me.”

\-----

For once, “Killing Tucker” is one of the last things on the list of Shit Church Needs To Get Done Today, in between “Systemically Kicking Every Red In The Balls” and “Kicking Caboose And Tucker Specifically In The Balls.” Numbers one, two, and three on the list (in no particular order) are “Apologize To Tex For His General Existence,” “Get These Fucking AI Out Of Here,” and “Live To See Tomorrow.”

He has yet to accomplish a single one of these things.

“So,” Church begins tentatively, almost jogging to keep up with Tex’s quick, heavy steps, “who’s next?”

There’s a moment of silence. Church is about to accept the fact that he’s been ignored, but then Tex says, quietly, “Theta.”

Church blinks. “Who?”

Omega laughs darkly. “The runt,” he says, his voice deep and condescending. “Or, as Tex likes to call him, the ‘little one.’”

“Omega,” Tex says warningly. The coldness in her voice sends chills down Church's spine, Omega merely snorts, seeming entirely unfazed.

“Such protectiveness,” Omega says mockingly, “Perhaps you're going soft, too, Agent Texas.”

Beneath her helmet, Tex narrows her eyes. “You wanna run that by me again, Omega?” she asks tightly. Her stance is relaxed and loose, head cocked to the side casually, but Church doesn't doubt that every muscle in her body is itching for a fight.

Omega holds her gaze for all of several moments. Tex stares back at him evenly.

They've slowed to a stop, Church realizes suddenly, belatedly.

They've slowed to a _stop_ and they're having a fucking _stare down_ in the hallway while they're supposed to be looking for this Theta thing and _Wash_ is out there with _the Meta_ and it's so ridiculous and petty that Church wants to scream.

“Okay, fuck this. Do we need to have an intervention? We have a fucking job to do. You can fucking argue all you want after this is over and you’re stuck with one another for eternity, but now is not the fucking time.” Church finishes his great, dramatic tirade with an equally great and dramatic and entirely ridiculous flail of his arms.

Tex actually looks a little startled by his outburst- he imagines she’s either raising her eyebrows, or maybe plotting his violent demise for interrupting her- but Omega just seems amused.

After what seems like an eternity, Tex sighs. “You’re right,” she says. Church releases a breath he didn’t even know he was holding. “Finding Theta should be our priority. We need to find him fast.” She pauses and looks up. “The Meta found Theta relatively recently, but I don’t know what Sigma could have done to him in the the meantime.”

Omega grunts and turns away, continuing to trudge down the endless hallways. Tex lingers next to Church for a moment, watching his back as he walks ahead.

“Are you… okay?” Church asks hesitantly.

“I'm fine,” Tex says shortly, in a manner that tells Church she is decidedly not fine.

After a moment of deliberation, Church asks, "Were you close to Theta?”

Tex sighs. “A little,” she admits. “North- he was Theta’s partner- he helped me out in a few tight spots. Left Freelancer with me and York.”

“...Oh,” Church says. Fuck he's always been bad at this empathy thing. Shit.

“We’ll get him back,” he tries anyway. “Together. Trust me.” There’s something odd in the way he says that, something missing. ‘ _Trust_.’

Tex lets out a quiet laugh. Her eyes travel back to watch Omega’s retreating form. “Trust, huh,” she says softly, something indecipherable in her voice. “What a concept.”

\----

Wash leans back against a wall, eyes shut tightly. He groans as he settles down, the gash on his stomach protesting his every move.

Maine has been quiet- not exactly something new, but considering the fact that he's been almost completely unresponsive to anything Wash has been saying to him for the past five minutes, it's actually a little concerning.

On the bright side, it also means that he's not trying to kill him, so Wash will take what he's gets.

His suit pumps some more painkillers into his system, and Wash is starting to feel a bit lightheaded- either from the blood loss or the the palliatives, or maybe both.

‘ _Probably both_ ,’ he thinks hazily. He squints at his helmet, lying on the floor some feet away, and considers reaching over to grab it- and decides not to. He’s so tired.

He’s dimly aware of Maine crouching down beside him, and, too doped up to feel concerned, shoots the giant a woozy grin.

“Welcome back,” he mumbles, words slurring. There must be something wrong with his suit, a tiny, rational part of his brain says. There’s enough painkillers in his system that he might pass out soon.

He lets his head roll back against the wall, relishing in the coolness that seeps into his bones.

Maine growls something that Wash can’t make out. It sounds like it's coming from the other side of a aquarium glass, muffled and garbled.

He feel arms sliding underneath him, lifting him up.

“Nooooo,” Wash whines. “Gotta- gotta stay. Church needs me.” He waves an arm in the general direction of the memory units. “Gotta help him.”

Another indecipherable rumble, and Wash is back on the floor again.

He feels unconsciousness try to creep up on him, blackening the edges of his vision, and he shakes himself awake, pawing at the manual override of his suits med system, stopping the flow of painkillers.

‘ _Probably should have done that earlier_ ,’ he thinks, and his stomach throbs, as if in response.

He absentmindedly notes Maine moving out of his peripherals- and then he’s gone.

“Maine?” Wash calls, craning his head to look. There’s the whir of the doors opening and the sound of retreating footsteps. “Maine, where are you going?” The doors shut. “Wait- _fuck_ \- Maine!”

Wash attempts to struggle to his feet and fails miserably, sliding back down to the ground with a pained whimper.

‘ _Shit_.’

\----

It’s not Tex or Omega that finds Theta, but Church.

Church is falling behind when he hears crying, the quiet, muffled sobs of a child. He looks around, but nothing but the walls of the endless hallway meet his gaze.

“The hell?” he mutters.

He runs a hand over the wall, trying to find the source of the noise.

“Church?” Tex asks impatiently, turning around to eye him. “What are you doing?”

“Don’t you hear that?” he says. “There’s… crying or something.”

Tex frowns and cocks her head. Her eyes widen and she rushes to his side, listening intently.

Church takes a few steps and pauses.

“Over here!” he calls to Tex. “It's coming from here!”

Tex very nearly shoves him aside in her haste, palms splayed flat against the wall.

“Omega!” she barks. The AI practically materializes by her side and Church suppresses a flinch.

“On three,” she says, and Church has no idea what she means until she counts up and and the two of them fucking bash the wall in.

“Holy shit,” he says, because now there’s a gaping hole where there once was a smooth, pristine wall, insulating foam crumbling off the sides.

Tex hops through effortlessly, Omega at her tail, and Church yelps, “Wait up!” as he clambers through with the grace of a drunken Caboose. (Not that, of course, they ever let Caboose anywhere near alcohol, because God knows that bumbling idiot is enough trouble sober.)

It’s almost pitch black on the other side, the only source of illumination coming from the hallway’s fluorescent light streaming through the hole. Agitated particles of dust and god knows what swarm around him, coating his visor in a grimy film, and Church attempts to wipe it off, only to smear it around uselessly.

Swearing irritably, he trudges after Tex and Omega, who have already made significant headway.

Church activates his visor’s night vision once it gets too dark to see, the hole they came through little more than a bright speck behind them.

Tex is muttering to her partner, gesturing impatiently with her hands as they walk deeper. Omega inclines his head in response, but Church doesn’t hear much past the deep rumble of his voice, unable to make out the words.

The two have finished their conversation by the time Church catches up enough to actually hear anything, and he follows two steps behind them, the silhouettes of their backs the only thing he can see.

“What is this place?” he asks finally, sick of the silence. “I thought this was supposed to be a ship.”

“It is,” Tex says. “But it's also whatever Sigma wants it to be.”

She doesn't say anything after that, and Church grimaces. “That's not cryptic or anything,” he mutters, scowling at the ground.

The crying hasn't gotten any louder, despite all the time they've spent walking, but it hasn't gotten any quieter, either. Church waits about another two minutes before he loses his shit.

“Look,” he shouts, “this isn't getting us anywhere!”

Tex glares at him sharply. “You brought us here,” she says. “What, you have a better idea?”

Church pauses, takes a deep breath, and screams, “THETA! WHERE THE _FUCK_ ARE YOU?!”

The crying abruptly stops.

Tex sighs. Omega scoffs.

Church is about three seconds from admitting that, yeah, maybe that wasn't the best idea when a voice, soft and timid, says, “Who's there?”

He freezes.

Tex’s head jerks up like she’s been shocked, eyes wide behind her helmet.

“Theta?” she calls. “Theta, can you hear me?”

“Agent Texas?” Theta sniffles.

“It’s me,” Tex says, urgency rising in her voice. “Theta, where are you?”

“I don’t know,” Theta whimpers. “It’s dark. I’m scared.”

“Okay,” she says, “keep talking. We’ll follow your voice and find you.”

She glances back at Church. He’d been completely still since Theta had started talking.

“Church,” she says quietly. Then, louder, “Church!”

He flinches, as if hit, taking deep, heaving breaths. “I- I’m fine,” he insists before Tex can say anything more. “I just- I don’t know. But I’m fine.”

Tex frowns. “We have to keep moving,” she says, and Church is grateful that she doesn’t push.

The three of them follow the sound of Theta’s rambling, with Tex occasionally responding with soft reassurances and acknowledgement. Church doesn’t remember her ever interacting with children, wonders if this is how she would treat them, gentle and encouraging. Then he snorts at the idea of Tex having kids to begin with.

He’s pointlessly scanning the darkness ahead of them for the hundredth time when he finally sees something- a tiny blip of light along the dark, staticky green of his night vision. He does a double take, squinting as he checks again.

He grabs Tex by the shoulder, hisses to her, “Do you see that?”

There’s a moment of quiet before she breaks into a jog, running towards the speck with Church and Omega at her heels.

As they get closer, Church can make out its features- a small figure sitting on the ground, knees pulled up to their chest, arms hugging their legs close.

“Theta,” he whispers. _Trust me_.


	4. rising action

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the end is near, but the story is just beginning

“Theta?” Tex says quietly, crouching down by their small form.

Their head jerks up, teary and wide-eyed, and- oh God, Church thinks, they look like a _child_.

They look like _him_.

Theta gapes, open-mouthed and hopeful, and in the span of a second they’ve thrown themselves into Tex’s arms. “Agent Texas!” they sob, arms wrapped around her waist in a tight hug. “You- you’re really here!”

Tex keeps her arms up, as if unsure how to return the gesture. Then, slowly, she lowers them, resting a hand on Theta’s head and another on their shoulder.

“You’re okay now,” she says. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

Church feels like he’s intruding on a private moment and averts his gaze, silently staring at the ground at his feet. Omega seems to have no such reservations.

“We’re done here,” he growls, low and menacing. “We’re wasting time.”

Theta flinches as if they’ve been struck, shrinking behind Tex as the latter shoots Omega a dark, disapproving glare.

“Theta,” she says, gently, softly, turning his gaze back to them, “I need you to go into a memory unit. I’ll open a channel for you.”

Theta looks up at her, teary-eyed and fearful. “B-but-”

“Theta,” she says again firmly. “You’ll be safe, and it’s only for a little bit. I’ll get you as soon as we take care of Sigma and Gamma, okay?”

They’re silent for for few moments. “...Okay,” they say finally, quiet and subdued. “But you have to promise! Promise you’ll come back for me.”

Omega lets out a derisive snort, which Tex pointedly ignores.

“I promise,” she murmurs, holding their tiny hands in her own.

And with a rush of static, Theta is gone.

Omega huffs impatiently. “Let’s get a move on,” he growls, stalking away, restless, agitated energy snapping at his heels.

Omega makes him uneasy, Church thinks. The feralness of him, the coldness in his voice, the thinly veiled rage that boils beneath his skin.

The fact that they are part of each other.

Church tries not to flinch as Omega brushes past him.

The journey back out of the darkness takes significantly less time than going in, much to Church’s relief. The three of them clamber back through the gaping hole and into the fluorescent lights of the halls of the Mother of Invention.

His relief quickly turns to fear when everything starts to shake.

“What the fuck!” he yelps, nearly thrown off his feet by the tremors. Ceiling panels break free from their frames and clatter on the floor. He tries to reach out to the wall for support but grabs Tex by accident, and she shoots him an irritated glare as he clings to her.

After what seems like an eternity, the quaking ceases, and by the end of it, Church feels like half his bones have been jostled out of place.

“What the hell was that?” he asks frantically.

“That old bot’s probably breaking down,” Tex says, eyeing the walls with trepidation. “We need to hurry and get to Gamma and Sigma.”

“Yeah, sure,” Church says, “but where the fuck are they?” 

Tex cracks her knuckles and bares her teeth in a feral grin. “Let’s find out.”

\----

Maine grabs his helmet before he leaves, the cold air prickling uncomfortably along his bare scalp.

He slips it on. It’s familiar, the light of the HUD on his visor, the cushioning around his ears, the gel padding along his skull, like a second skin that stops bullets and shows him how much blood he has left in his body.

Leaves the Brute Shot on the ground.

Maine treads through the halls. The Director’s voice blares through his comms, his accent thick in his rage.

“Agent Maine, what exactly do you think you’re _doing_?” he snarls. Maine can distantly hear the low, rolling candence of the Counselor, hears the sharp retort of the Director, ignores it.

Need to get Wash help.

“Do you want to meet the Alpha?” the Director barks. “Fulfill. Your. _Duty_.”

Maine pauses. The Alpha, the whispered Creator, Sigma’s obsession. The _Meta’s_ obsession. Not his.

Not anymore.

He keeps walking.

When the incessant Southern timbre starts to grate on his nerves, Maine shuts off his comms.

He takes off his helmet, turning it over in his hands. The mirror-gold of the fishbowl visor stares back, and he traces his hands over the hairline fracture across the polycarbonate. Wash learned how to hit. He can see his reflection on the curved, glassy surface, the distorted curve of his jaw, the warped line of his brow. It’s almost comical.

With a soft huff, he slips it back on, and it’s blissfully silent.

Much better.

He’s had enough of voices in his head.

He reaches the exit of the ship quickly, his long strides eating up the distance easily. Outside, there’s almost nothing, a thick blanket of snow coats every surface, blinding and white, and a crest of mountains separates the the crystal sky from the earth.

His visor automatically darkens to compensate for the sudden light, and Maine looks around.

He remembers this place.

_Carolina, eyes wide, confused, angry. Not afraid. Never afraid._

_“Maine?”_

_Sigma whispers encouragement in his ears. His head thrums with pain, burning the backs of his eyes and roaring in his ears._

_His hands are cold around her throat._

Maine exhales sharply, hands flexing as he struggles to ground himself.

No. Not now. Wash needs help.

How, exactly, is a good question.

A low growl rumbles in his ruined throat. He’s not good with ideas. He follows orders, doesn’t give them.

Carolina would know what to do.

He shakes his head- _not now_ \- and stares at the expanse ahead of him, all sheer cliffs and blinding snow. For the first time, he notices the treadmarks of multiple Warthogs. Fresh, by the looks of it.

He glances back. There’s one Warthog left in the bay.

Maine has an idea. Whether or not it’s a _good_ one- well. He’ll just have to see.

With a huff, he turns.

\----

“ _Greetings, Alpha._ ” The disembodied voice rings through the hall, echoing eerily in the empty space. “ _Beta_. Omega.” At the last name, the voice takes on a disapproving tone, a mockery of a chastising mother.

“Sigma,” Omega greets coolly, tilting his head. “Finally come out to play?” His voice rumbles, deep and menacing in a way that sends shivers down Churches spine.

“ _Not with you_ ,” Sigma replies mildly.

Tex frighteningly still, as if frozen, and Church doesn’t know whether to be afraid for her or afraid of her.

Tex takes one step, then two, and suddenly she’s sprinting down the hall. Church stumbles after her, Omega passing him easily with a long, ground-eating lope. 

“Where are we going?” Church wheezes, skidding around a sharp turn and attempting not to run straight into a wall.

“Control center,” Tex responds, not sounding the slightest bit out of breath. “Of course he would be there- _of course_.”

“Sigma?” Church asks between heaving breaths, because he has no clue what the fuck is going on.

“And Gamma,” Tex corrects him,

The place is like a maze, Church thinks, aghast. It’s nothing but hallway after hallway after _hallway_ , branching out into more _fucking hallways_.

He feels like he’s going to lose his mind.

Despite that, Tex leads them with surety, confident and quick in her steps.

They finally stop, Church gasping for breath, in front of massive door.

Tex punches something in onto the keypad nearby and growls with irritation as it blinks red. “Locked.”

She steps back and studies the door. It’s metal, mostly, and when she raps her knuckles against it, it rings out solidly.

“Can you break it?” Church asks, squinting. Tex is strong, but… Maybe not that strong.

Tex answers with a punch that dents the metal in at least three inches and makes the doorframe groan.

Church swallows thickly. _Oh_.

She throws two more punches, each making _everything_ rattle, from the floor to his bones, before the third makes the door burst off the frame.

Tex walks in, straight-backed and head held high, Omega and her side and Church at her heels.

Sigma stands at the control panel, hands folded neatly at the small of his back. He gazes out through the windows ponderously, seemingly unfazed by their violent entrance.

“Sigma,” Tex grits out, hands clenched at her sides.

Finally, he turns.

“Alpha,” Sigma says. “It’s good to finally meet you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short chapter, but i really wanted it to end where it did. i'll try to make the next one longer to make up for it!


	5. hey quick question, church says. yeah- uh- what the fuck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the climax of the first battle of many  
> (bow chicka bow wow)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> christ. its almost been a year since ive updated. uh. sorry.

Washington needs a doctor.

Maine knows this, and knows where to find one. He stares at the blip on his HUD.

 _Maybe_.

\----

Miles away, Medical Officer Super Private First Class Frank “Doc” DuFresne sneezes.

“Jeez,” he sniffles, “these windmills _suck_.”

\----

Seeing Sigma is like a punch in the gut.

Church’s throat goes dry and his blood runs cold and about a dozen other things happen to his body that scream “ _bad_.”

Sigma seems entirely too calm for someone whose front door just got punched in, tilting his head with a bland smile.

“We’ve been waiting for you, Alpha,” he says, voice low and lilting.

“My name,” Church grits out, “isn't _Alpha_.”

“Of course,” Sigma says condescendingly, and the only thing Church wants to do is punch the AI’s fiery little face in.

Apparently, Tex has the same idea, because the moment Sigma shuts his mouth Tex is on him like a bullet, a straight, purposeful fist aimed straight at his throat.

She makes contact.

Sigma smiles.

Church waits for Sigma to go flying. Or crumple or _something_.

He does none of those things.

Sigma just… _flickers_ for a moment, and suddenly he’s across the room, observing them apathetically.

“My, my, Agent Texas,” he says mildly, “that was rather uncalled for.”

There’s a shift, and Tex whirls around just in time to dance out of reach of a shimmering, pale figure.

“Gamma,” Sigma says disapprovingly, “you’re late.”

Gamma shrugs in a manner that says very clearly that he doesn't care at all, and is immediately tackled by Omega.

Omega pins him against the wall, jet black against Gamma’s shimmering white, and pulls back his fist. The punch lands directly on Gamma’s temple and the resulting force is enough to force his head into the wall, leaving an ugly dent.

“Knock knock,” Omega growls, cruel and jeering.

Sigma looks very mildly surprised, and Tex uses his distraction close the distance between them.

One-two, one-two, goes her punches, Sigma flickering away with each attempted blow.

At the very least, Tex seems to have him on the defensive, a frown marring his normally passive features, but he’s somehow managing to keep up with her.

Church’s gaze is wide-eyed- he’s frozen in place, too stiff to even tremble, and his heart catches in his throat when Sigma looks him in the eye.

His tense expression smooths over to neutrality and Church is filled with dread.

With Tex’s next blow, Sigma vanishes completely.

“Mother _fucker_ ,” Tex snarls, whirling around. “Where the fuck is he?!”

Omega lets Gamma’s limp body drop to the ground. “Running,” he rumbles, “like the coward he is.”

Tex growls, grabbing Gamma’s lifeless form by the collar and wrenching him up- there’s a rush of static and he disappears.

Omega grunts noncommittally. “He can't hide. Not for long.”

“We don't have long,” Tex snaps, and as if in response the ground lurches beneath their feet and the lights flicker weakly. A crack spreads across the glass of the viewing window.

She exhales sharply through her teeth and Church can't think of a time when he's ever seen her this unsettled. Tex is always in control, always smart enough, always strong enough- but now? Something's wrong.

There's a prickling sensation on the back of his neck, like someone dragging a needle across his skin, and Church flinches, jerking back and whirling around.

He turns just in time to see a shadow of movement at the door.

Suddenly, it’s far too quiet.

“...Tex?” he says weakly, voice catching in his throat. He doesn’t want to look.

He turns back. Tex and Omega are frozen in place, eerily still- twin jet black statues that seem to melt into the dull shadows.

“Tex?” he says again, louder. “Tex, _please_.”

His words meet absolute silence, echoing back at him mockingly. He reaches for her, and as his fingers brush her armored shoulder, her arms shimmers and dissipates into static for just a moment, and he jerks back violently.

Church takes a step back, then another, and stumbles back, leaning against the wall for support.

“ _Goddamnit_ ,” he chokes out, dragging a hand over his face. He’s shaking badly.

He glances back at the doorway, empty now, and then at Tex.

“You are gonna owe me so much after this,” he says with false bravado, and takes off.

At every corner, there’s a flicker of… something, like an afterimage, and it leads Church on.

Shepherding him.

Church can’t help the growing feeling of dread that accumulates in the pit of his stomach the further he goes. The corridors seem to go on forever, uniform and unvarying, and he feels like he travelling blind. Every time he rounds a corner he half-expects to run into Sigma, and his heart hammers in his chest painfully.

“Damnit,” he mutters, hands clenching as he jogs down the hall. “ _Damnit_.”

The shadow leads him to an observation deck, a massive viewing window stretching across one wall and overlooking… a training room?

Church steps forward to get a better look, leaning closer to peer down-

He sees Sigma in the reflection of the glass.

Church whirls around, eyes wide and hackles raised. Sigma is standing, arms folded neatly behind his back, expression placid.

It takes him a moment to force the words past the knot in his throat. “What the _fuck_ did you do to Texas?”

Sigma tilts his head. “I did nothing.”

“Cut the shit,” he snarls. “What did you _do_?!”

Sigma doesn’t answer for a few moments, tilting his head and observing their surroundings.

“This unit is failing,” he says finally. “I am not surprised that Beta and Omega have gone offline.”

“Offline?” Church says, fear rising in his voice. “What the fuck do you mean?”

“Nothing permanent,” Sigma soothes. “At least, not if the unit stabilizes. Otherwise, they’ll be trapped. We all will be.” 

“There’s no we,” Church says, bitingly harsh. “Tex and I are getting out of here. Fuck off to the rest of you.”

“Without us you are incomplete,” Sigma says, and there’s a sharp, desperate edge to his voice that wasn’t there before.

“I don’t care about that!” Church shouts, voice cracking. He pauses, chest heaving as he gasps for air and trembling. “I don’t care,” he says again, quieter. “I just want Tex back.”

Sigma looks at him, eyes fire-bright and cold. “I see,” he murmurs.

He turns his gaze to the shuddering ceiling and cracking walls. “Sacrifices must be made,” he says.

“Nothing is worth losing her,” Church hisses. “Nothing. I’m not losing her again.”

And Church grabs Sigma by the throat and it feels like his whole body is burning from the inside, like he’s being set ablaze, and then Sigma is gone.

—-

“- _urch? Church_?!”

Church awakens with a strangled gasp.

Kind of.

His incorporeal form floats next to Washington’s unconscious body, and the Meta looms over him.

He wishes the scream he makes is a little manlier than it actually is.

“Whoa, Church, calm down! It’s just me!”

That… is not the Meta talking.

“D-Doc?” Church sputters. “What the _fuck_?! What are you doing here?”

“Oh, well, I was trying to follow you guys, but then I was in this horrible place filled with windmills- which was doing absolutely nothing for allergies, by the way- and this big fella comes over in a Warthog and picks me up and then he led me here!” Doc gestures towards Washington, who looks entirely unconscious and not that great, actually. “So I started patching this poor sucker up and you popped out of nowhere!”

Church takes exactly two seconds to ponder this turn of events- namely, Doc’s definition of ‘patching up’ because he distinctly remembers Doc saying that his job was to make people less in pain before they die or some bullshit- before his attention focuses on a far more pressing matter.

“Tex!” Church blurts. “Where is Tex?”

Doc, reasonably, looks confused. “Um,” he says.

Church stumbles towards the memory units, scattered on the floor. He brushes his hands over one and there’s a pulse- no, that’s Theta, and he’s not entirely sure how he knows but he does and moves to the next. Delta, Iota, and Gamma occupy the others, and when he touches Omega’s unit and a spike of pure fury lances through his chest Church is almost relieved, because that means Tex probably made it out, too.

Behind him, the Meta growls, low and rumbling, and Doc squeaks and turns his attention back to Wash.

Church finally reaches the memory unit where Tex is housed, and, with fumbling hands, unlocks it.

There’s a shimmers in the air and Tex flickers into existence, tall and black-armored and Tex.

Church breathes her name like a prayer.

The gold of her visor cuts across the room and zeros in on the Meta and she visibly tenses.

“ _You_ -“ she snarls.

“Tex?” Doc yelps.

She freezes, gaze flickering between the Meta, Doc, and Washington. “What-?”

“Roll with it?” Church suggests.

Washington stirs and suddenly all eyes are on him. He twitches. “Whuh-?”

“Oh, you’re alive!” Doc cheers with a little too much surprise to be comforting.

Wash looks around blearily. The Meta kneels down at his side, opposite from Doc, and stares steadily at him.

Doc cracks open a canister of biofoam, running it over the half-dissolved sealant that clings to the edges of the Freelancer’s wound. Wash hisses as the foam stings, trying half-heartedly to twist away from the medic’s grip. The Meta holds Wash down by the shoulders, massive hands almost comically large against the span of Wash’s shoulders.

“ _Maine_ ,” Washington grits out, pawing at the Meta’s arms ineffectually and, okay, what the fuck.

“I am so tired,” Church says to no one in particular, “of this bullshit.”

Next to him, Texas sighs.

—-

When Tucker gets a ping on his HUD that’s a message from Church he squints.

//can you come back washington is fucking dying//

“What the fuck,” Tucker says.

In the next car over, Caboose wails, “ _Chuuuuuuurch_!”


	6. and thus we gallivant about like losers who don't know where they're going

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heyo i'm back and i'm sowwy about being so bad at updating  
> writing is hard and i am small and have no money, so you can imagine the kind of stress i'm under  
> (also i cleaned up the tags a little so they better represent the current state of this fic)

When Tucker finally makes it back to Control with the rest of the Reds and Blues, the sight of Church bickering with the Meta- _holy fuck it's the Meta_ - who has an unconscious Wash in his arms with Doc hovering nervously to the side with a bunch of… things in his arms and Tex- _Tex_?!- floating - _floating_?!- close behind isn’t the last thing he expects to see, but it’s pretty far down the fucking list.

“What the fuck,” Tucker says flatly, and distantly hears Grif echo the sentiment. Simmons makes... a noise. 

“Tucker, stop fucking around and help get Wash in the car,” Church barks.

“Where the fuck are we supposed to go?” Tucker snaps back, even as he clambers down from the Warthog to do exactly as Church says- not because he was told to, obviously, but because Washington looks more than a little fucked up.

And _maybe_ he flinches a little when the Meta’s head swings around to face him, the golden fishbowl reflecting a distorted mirror of Tucker’s helmet. Holy fuck. What the fuck.

Despite Church’s insistence for help, the Meta seems perfectly capable of wrangling Wash into the car by himself.

The Meta climbs into the Warthog, Wash carried bridal-style in his arms- “Careful!” Doc squeaks- and the entire car tilts to one side when their weight is settled in it.

Caboose takes one look at Wash and says, “I didn’t do it.” Then, “Tucker did it.”

“Shut up, Caboose,” Church says, and watching Caboose’s body language change is like watching a puppy that’s just been shown its favorite toy.

“Church!” he cheers. “And mean robot-shark-lady!”

Simmons whimpers.

“Sup cockbites,” Tex drawls. “Miss me?”

“Aren’t you supposed to be dead?” Grif asks.

She cocks her head, and there’s a razor-edged grin glinting behind her helmet. “Do I look like the kind of person who stays dead?” Then, turning to Sarge, “Any chance you got any more robots, old man? Last one you built wasn’t too bad.”

“Why would I, the leader of the Red Team, help a disgusting, dirty Blue such as yourself?” the older man blusters.

“Because if you don’t, I’m going to punch you in the balls so hard you’ll taste it for a week.”

“Point taken.”

“We need to get back to Blood Gulch,” Church interrupts, “because, in case you guys haven’t noticed, Washington is all sorts of fucked up.”

“The fuck are we gonna do at base?” Tucker says. “The last time anyone actually needed help they sent us _Doc_. We’ll probably have a better chance here-”

“No,” Church blurts. “I can’t- we can’t stay here any longer.”

“He’s right,” Tex says. “We shouldn’t stay. People might come for us. Blood Gulch might be our best chance at laying low.”

“ _People_?” Grif squawks. “What the fuck have you guys been doing?”

“Fucking up a government-funded military program and capturing a bunch of AI fragments,” Tex answers easily. “So, more than you.”

There’s a low, rumbling growl and everyone other than Tex freezes.

“Yeah. Uh. One more question. What the _fuck_ is up with _that_?!” Grif shrieks, pointing at the Meta.

“Yeah, that’s Maine,” Church says. “Welcome him aboard, yadda yadda, now can we please get a fucking move on before Wash bleeds out all over the upholstery? I honestly wouldn’t mind that much, but then the big guy over there might tear us apart with his bare hands.”

Tucker swallows thickly. “Right,” he says. “Yeah, let’s go. You two can drive with Caboose, and I’ll take Wash.”

“Yay!”

“Why the fuck do I have to ride with Caboose?”

“Because you don’t have a body for him to kill anymore.”

“You _motherfucker_ \- Hold on. Where _is_ my body?”

“Story for another time.”

“You _cocksucker_ -!”

“Yeah, gotta go, see you at base.”

—

Tucker grips the steering so hard that the leather creaks under the pressure, equal parts unnerved by the Meta's- _Maine’s_ \- looming presence in the passenger’s seat and Wash’s ragdoll-lifeless body in the back. Doc is there, too, periodically checking Wash’s vitals and spraying some sort of foam over the bloody mess of the Freelancer’s stomach.

He can vaguely hear Church shrieking from Caboose’s car- Tucker’s not entirely sure why a ghost needs to scream about a car ride, but Church is pretty much giving it his all.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Tucker mutters, eyes flickering up to the rearview mirror to catch a glimpse of Wash carefully braced in Doc’s arms. “Jesus _fucking_ Christ.”

His comms crackle to life. “ _You think Vic’ll be able to help if we call_?” Simmons asks.

“Oh, god no,” Tucker snorts. “Dude, first of all, when we asked for a doctor it took Doc months to get here. Secondly, it was _Doc_.”

“ _He sent Tex_ ,” Simmons points out.

“ _Yeah_ ,” Grif says. “ _The last fucking thing we need is_ another _Tex_.”

“ _Right here, cockbites_ ,” Tex says.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Grif squeaks. “ _I forgot she’s alive again_.”

—-

They make it as far as UNSC Wind Power Facility before they run into trouble.

The three-UNSC-vertibirds-with-all-the-guns-pointed-at-them kind of trouble.

“Oh,” Tucker says, “you have _got_ to be kidding me.”

“All drivers and passengers, exit your vehicles now,” a voice blares from the Pelican. “You are under arrest. I repeat, you are under arrest.”

“What did you guys _do_?!” Simmons shrieks at Church.

Maine’s helmet whips up along with the Brute Shot, the blade glinting and barrel aimed, but Tex shouts, “Hold up!”

She flickers, reappearing by Caboose. “Hey buddy,” she says, oddly gentle, “I’m gonna have to borrow your body for a bit, okay?”

“Yeah, uh,” Caboose says. “Please return it later. Or you will have to pay the late fee. It is expensive.”

Tex lets out a tiny huff, a smile curling at the corners of her mouth. “Alright.”

She shimmers, disappears, and suddenly Caboose is standing straight, shoulders squared, and Tex swings the rifle up in one smooth motion and fires two shots straight through the windshield of the nearest bird. The first cracks through the glass and the second makes the pilot’s head thump back against the headrest and slump forward.

The Pelican is close enough to the ground that when it crashes, the worst of damage is the crumpled landing skids, and someone clambers out the passenger side.

“Open fire!” one of the other pilots shouts.

“Floor it!” Sarge shouts, and it’s the first time Tucker has seen Grif obey orders so quickly. The warthog takes off with a screech, and Tucker slams on the gas, catching a glimpse of Tex-Caboose taking a seat and doing the same.

“Slow down!” Doc yelps, one arm around Wash- who is somehow still entirely unconscious- and the other braced against the side.

As if on cue, the vertibirds’ miniguns whir to life, bullets shredding the ground behind them.

Tucker swerves wildly, skidding behind the columns for cover before whirling around the base of one of the windmills. “Still want me to slow down, asshole?” he shouts over the rattle of gunfire.

Doc’s screaming is largely incomprehensible, but Tucker makes out, “I don’t wanna die!”

They go off the edge of some sort of platform and drop about ten feet onto dirt, and the landing nearly sends Maine flying out of the passenger’s seat, and resulting jolt sends Tucker’s head dangerously close to the blade of the Brute Shot.

Maine snarls, wrenching the Brute Shot from his back- “Watch where you’re swinging that thing!” Tucker yelps- and braces his legs against the seat as he stands and twists. Tucker glances at him and then immediately turns his attention back to the road, and he’s only vaguely aware of Maine firing, emptying the clip into the sky.

Tucker is, however, extremely aware of the explosions that rattle the vertibird on their tail, and how it crashes not even ten feet to their right in a twisted mess of metal and fire.

“Holy shit,” he mutters, half to himself. “How did we even _survive_ you?”

Maine rumbles and sits back down.

“Cool,” Tucker says, and keeps driving. He’s got no idea where the Reds or Tex and the others ran off to, and slows a little, scanning the sky for the last vertibird.

On cue, an explosion rings out somewhere to his right, immediately followed by Sarge’s howling cheer of, “ROCKET LAUNCHEEEEER!” and interspersed with high-pitched, incomprehensible screaming that can only be Simmons.

“Alrighty,” Tucker says, and veers to the side.

He drives along, following the fresh plume of smoke. “How’s Wash?” he calls back to Doc.

There’s a questionable pause. “Alive?”

Tucker squints through the rear view mirror. “Are you sure?”

There’s another pause, even longer and more questionable than the last. “Ye-es?” Doc says, like the word needs to be trawled through mud and dragged out.

“For fuck’s sake,” Tucker mutters.

“You filthy, dirty, conniving blue!” Sarge bellows in the distance.

“Shut the fuck up!” Church screeches back.

“For fuck’s sake,” Tucker says again.

He pulls up to a screaming match between Sarge and a transparent Church. The latter’s voice has reached a pitch best described as ‘uncomfortable.’ With the ease of long practice, Tucker’s almost all but tunes them out, catching snippets when the volume exceeds that of human limits. ‘Motherfucker’ is thrown around like there’s a reward for it, ‘son of a bitch’ a close second, with a judicious sprinkling of ‘cocksuckers’ for good measure.

Vaguely, Tucker notes that Tex and Caboose are absent from Church’s Warthog, as is Simmons from the Reds’. Grif has his face planted fully on the steering wheel in a way that really can’t be good for his neck.

“Hey,” Tucker says loudly. “Where’s Tex?”

Church turns the full force of his glare onto Tucker, which is about as threatening as a high school nerd. “She took Caboose and Simmons to see if we can use one of the vertibirds,” he bites out, foul-tempered as always. “How’s Wash?”

“Alive. Maybe.”

“He is!” Doc squawks indignantly.

“For your sake, he better be,” Church replies with a meaningful glance towards Maine.

Doc pales. “Wash is definitely, absolutely, one-hundred percent alive.”

Maine, understandably, remains silent.

Tex is back within the next breath, comfortably wearing Caboose’s body like its been hers all along, Simmons at her heels.

Tucker twitches. Caboose’s body with Tex’s mannerisms is basically his worst nightmare. He would have literally anything else. Even an actual human-robot-shark Tex would be better.

“The first one I dropped is functional,” she calls. “We can take Wash and Doc back faster, and you guys can follow behind.”

“And give you dirty Blues a chance to set up an ambush for us?” Sarge booms. “Not a chance in hell!”

Tex levels a steady stare in Sarge’s direction. It says a lot about him that he barely flinches.

“If you’re so concerned,” she says, with remarkable calmness considering that is both Tex and someone attempting to talk to Sarge, “then I’ll leave Caboose with you and have Simmons fly instead.”

“Deal,” Sarge says, oblivious to Simmons’ panicked squeak.

There’s a shimmer, and Tex phases out of Caboose, and his posture immediately slouches into something decidedly more Caboose-like.

“Ah!” he says. “That felt like…”

There’s a pregnant pause.

“Well?” Tucker prompts, against his better judgement. “What did it feel like?”

“What did what feel like.”

Church throws his hands up. “Why do we even fucking bother?”

—

With Maine’s help, Wash is loaded into the back of the vertibird, and Simmons awkwardly clambers into the pilot’s seat.

Tucker eyes him dubiously. “You do know how to fly that thing, right?”

“Technically, yes,” Simmons says, which inspires the exact opposite of confidence.

“Holy shit,” Tucker says, “you guys are fucking _screwed_.”


End file.
